


Makin' Fans in Low Places

by Coffin Liqueur (HP_Lovecats)



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Dark Comedy, Dark Crack, Explicit Language, Game: Resident Evil 7, Gen, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 10:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21097892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HP_Lovecats/pseuds/Coffin%20Liqueur
Summary: Hey - you know how the RE7 OST labels the Barn Fight track, officially, "'Sacrifice' by the Sewer Gatorz"?Because, well - it looks like some asshole thought he’d look into whether his favorite obscure in-universe rock act happened to have any relation to a certain group of travelers with the same name.





	Makin' Fans in Low Places

Clancy heard Pete’s breathing before his own. Then Andre’s.

Then his.

All three of them did it roughly - with that kind of dry-yet-steamy blow and shiver that comes after a person’s been doused in water and forced to soldier on through it and the cold. (_ But -- i-it wasn’t cold, right? It’s July, it’s July -- balmy summer. Bugs and everything. _ ...Did they get caught in the rain…?

He couldn’t remember.)

He, himself, was shivering from head to wet shoes.

(** _Must’ve_ ** _ got caught in the rain… _ Shook his head, shook his head, shook his head…)

“Guys…?” he called out, lightly. Willowy.

“Clance…?”

“Andre? I-is that -- is that… you…?”

“Yeah, man, yeah…” Andre’s voice was quiet. Rushed. Breathy.

And Pete cut in like a set a’ jabs with a pen. “Hey, _ guys _, can you -- can you two see anything…?” Picking up at the end into a frantic kinda whine.

“Pete…?” Andre forced a noise that couldn’t quite make the edge of a laugh. “Huh… thank god, man…”

As another sense of a jab hit Clancy from heart to the back of his skull. He shifted in place - his arms wouldn’t move, damn, _ what…! _ “N-no…? I-It’s all black over here…”

He _ couldn’t _ see anything. _ Fucking _ ** _shit_ ** , how did he not make a fucking thing _ out _of that…

“Me neither, man… Pete, can you move?”

“That’s a… that’s a no-go…”

“G-guys, do you remember what happened…?”

There was a ** _pop_ **.

Nice and loud; made his whole body seize like the sound’d been the flick of a switch on a cattle prod. He felt it in his head. Wood scraped against wood to his left. (_ Pete’s chair -- _)

...And then creaked, and collided against wood. With a bang.

“_ DAMMIT -- ! _ ” Pete cried. A pained gasp, then a second-wind shout of “ _ ...SON OF A -- _ ** _BITCH!!_ **”

(_ ... -- haaaas just fallen over backward -- fuck... _)

He kicked to edge Pete’s way. The legs of his chair wobbled and squeaked. “Hey, are you okay?” he mumbled, as Andre breathed something that now kinda had the oomph to be a laugh - kinda, pff, _ oh, my god _, was it okay now that he kinda… was feeling a little tickle in the bottom of his lungs, too…?

And in between sounds came a _ cackle _.

Popped the atmosphere, dropped all the struggle and rustle and that damp and heat under the shiveriness like it’d popped the hull of a spaceship. Opened it up to a chilly, chilly vacuum.

A needle-sharp-and-needle-thin, slippery, tittery _ cackle _. It hiccuped a little at the end.

Clancy held entirely still. Breath stopped and everything.

Steps moved briskly around him. Couldn’t triangulate the course, or anything, but it was close. He felt a little current of air breezing on the back of his neck as those steps crossed right behind him, _ shit _ \- all his bones tightened and clamped down around his organs building up a little fuckin’ planet core of bright-shining screaming _ peril! _

“...Now, that ain’t no way to talk about my _ mama! _” came a singsonging male voice.

Strong local-flavor accent.

“You ain’t even met ‘er -- and you’re sayin’ I must be some kinda sonova_ bitch…? _”

** _Strong_ **. Local-flavor accent.

_ You ain’ even met ‘uuh. _

Not just singsonging. Cloying. Runnin’ thin and dancing with effusiveness like it was a fucking ribbon.

Two steps fell heavier where Pete’s chair fell. Pete scoffed. “...What is this, _ Wrong Turn _ ?” He was -- speaking more than a little too fast... “Just -- just get this… this _ bag _or whatever off my head so I can spit in your face, motherfucker…!”

“We-he-_ heeeeeell, nowwwwwww-- ! _ ” The strange man paused a moment. Made a gritting noise - a hitching. He was pickin’ up Pete’s chair…? Was that right -- …? Clancy’s eyes darted to watch _ why couldn’t he see anything anywhere oh right _ ** _bag _ ** _ Pete just said _ ** _bag _ ** _ that made sense…! “ _ ...Rruh -- first you’re all about callin’ another man’s mama a bitch and then you gotta go and make it like that...?!” A thump of weight landing again. Wood-on-wood once-a more. “Hee-you got a lotta spunk, though, I shoulda _ figured…! _”

Pete coughed out a breath. “ -- Ugly hick… _ shhhhhitlord _,” he said. Kinda watery.

“An-dre, _ Aaaaaawwwwn-dreeeeee _ , my man, you gonna be a better _ sport _right now, though, riiiiight…?”

A gust of an exhale from Andre, as the steps crossed over his way. “...You know our names,” he said. “You the one who brought us here?”

A vague stab of paranoia forced a knife right between Clancy’s eyes. Proverbially. _ He knows our names…? How does he know our names -- _

“_ Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh _,” said the man. “All in good time, Andre; one thing after another…!”

The steps came toward Clancy next. Deliberate, steady presses of steps. Felt like counting the swings on the pendulum of a big metronome.

“Wait ‘til New-Boy Clancy here gets to join in…!”

Cold spiked all the way up through his spine…!

As with another cool-wind sweep, the bag (yup, definitely a bag, definitely a bag…) whipped off of his head.

He gasped once, full and voiced, like he could breathe in the color and the bigness of the air again - casting looks rapid and side-to-side between Andre and Pete. Shivering, too, looking at him like they wanted to be absolutely sure it was him, the backdrop of a simple household kitchen counter behind them --

...and then landing on the tall, lean dark shape coasting back around the table.

Clancy sunk lower in his seat as directly across from him, a scrawny man leaned over the circular table. Palms down, held up on his arms, swayin’ a little bit as he shifted from toe to toe.

Young man. Looked half like a fuckin’ -- ...half-shaved starved opossum. Moved like a rodent or a coked-out bird as he jerked one look with his big fuckin’ spotlight eyes onto Pete, then onto Andre, then onto Clancy.

And with a leaaaaan just a tad bit higher onto the table, he practically grew a half a foot taller.

And spread a great big meth-mouthed smile onto the three.

“Gentlemen…?!” he said.

Pete made a spitting sound - magnetized toward distractions, it seemed, Clancy’s eyes immediately snapped onto the surface of the table in front of him. Saw nothing.

“Am I right in my _ assumption… _” said the stranger. In spite of himself, Clancy looked right on back. The man winced and grunted as if stretching as he bent down, pulled back a fourth chair, and took a seat. His eyes fell lazily-lidded and grin half-stretched; he stuffed a hand into the pocket of his hoodie. “...that y’all are lookin’ foooooooooor…!”

It was very airy. The “R” sound practically lost in the wind-through-a-flute drawl.

The stranger put one hand behind his head. Leaned back into it. And with a flourish, with the other, he whipped a rolled-up newspaper into the air. Slapped it down onto the table with a flick of the wrist and an ending jazzhand like he was doin’ a magic trick.

“...The Baker clan?”

...Clancy stared down at the newspaper with an uncertainty he couldn’t quite place. Looked up at Pete first, questioningly. Got the same kinda look back. When they looked over at Andre for a lead to follow, they got him scooting on the soles of his shoes and with pulls of his bound arms to get on closer - already leaning in to read it. Clancy and Pete looked at each other again - then at the paper on the spark of a kick-into-gear to read it, too. Subconsciously racing over it.

The headline was clear:

**3 MISSING DURING URBEX TRIP  
**

Clancy felt something like a collapse in his lungs - he couldn’t place it, either, until Andre muttered “_ Christ _, it’s in the news, how long have we been out…”

“I don’t reckon that’s your chief concern,” said the stranger - leaning forward, scrunching his nose and twisting the corner of his grin up higher, eyes narrow, as one hand played with his sleeve.

“Lemme guess -- you’re a relative,” said Pete.

The stranger’s eyes went wide and bright. “You betcha!” Held a finger up, wiggled in place. “And I got it in one, didn’t I -- ?! _ Lucas _ Baker, here, at’ch’ _ youuuuur _ service!”

“The bad seed.” Andre’s head dropped heavy - a guy all but saying_ oh, great _.

“Awwwww, I got a rep and I ain’t ever even left town…”

“And your mom and dad?” Pete shot another look at Clancy. One of _ help me _, alas. Kept it there even as he kept talking. “Dead?”

“Let’s just say I got the house all to myself today.” Lucas’s voice was an _ odd coarse rumbly whisper _ . He leaned forward so damn far you’d think the chairs were rockers. He shook his head - and then tossed it upward. Like a reverse nod. His eyes had flown wide again, and his voice, too, was back to all wide-open and musical and clear. “Which is a good _ thing! _ ” he said. “‘Cause that means I get -- _ y’all _ to myself, too!”

He put his hands forward and out - extended to Pete and Andre as if commencing a prayer.

Smile not hitting his eyes as he held ‘em on Clancy, who scoffed, half-reflexively. “You’re a fan?” he said.

Lucas’s jaw opened. Then hung lower. Lower. “...A’ what, the Sewer Gators?” he mock-gasped. Leaning in hard again. He nodded twice - erratically. “Yeahyeah! ‘Course I am! In _ fact _ , uh - heh…!” The open curve of his mouth bent hard into an ear-to-ear smile. He fell back in his chair again, turned half-sideways, leaned on one elbow and fished his opposite hand into his pocket again. Held on Clancy a _ knowing _sidelong smirk.

“There!” he said, finally - one more flourish as he played one more proverbial magic-trick card.

This one slappin’ down with the slight crack of plastic. Lucas pushed the little square thing out into the center of the table.

The spooky bastard’s eyes gawked wide again. “You guys speechless, or somethin’?” A little crack to his voice. “I got y’all on CD, and everything!”

CD.

...Clancy swapped looks with Pete and Andre again. And then they looked at each other.

Almost hard-eyed. Or like -- like they’d just heard a cruel fucking joke, or something. Clancy continued double-takes between them. Hard. Fast. C’mon. C’mon, guys, talk to me…! “What?” he mumbled - just once.

He seized as Lucas passed the plastic thing closer his way with a flick. Only made it about three inches closer, but hell, it worked. Clancy craned over it. Worm-like.

It was, in fact, a CD case. Black cover. On it in white was a just-stylized gator skull - not terribly well-composed; it was a profile view with its jaws wide open. Lot of weirdly-balanced negative space.

Even accounting for the white text above, bold and embellished with circle to indicate the kinds of studs you see on a jacket or a belt right along with hosts of spikes.

It did, in fact, say “SEWER GATORZ”.

_ ...Gator _ ** _z_ ** _ . _

Clancy looked back up again and side-to-side at Pete and Andre with a furrowed brow.

They still weren’t looking back at him - both now leaned in and staring straight at Lucas.

Pete scoffed. “Yeah…? Well, whaddyou wanna do -- blackmail us, or something?”

Andre laughed - stiff and fake, nodding wearily. “Yeah -- everybody gets up to shit in college… You wouldn’t be hurting our viewerbase reminding all the relative newbies that we did music…”

“Or are you tryin’a get a private show?” Pete gave one only-so-frantic quasi-thrash in his chair. “‘Cause, uh - “ From him, too, a joyless, fake spit of a laugh. “...I hate to break it to you, but we’re not, like… W-Willy Nelson shit or whatever the hell it is you listen to out here!” One tossing shake of his head. “W-w-we were a metal band! -- Stuff with balls!”

“Jesus fuck,” Andre said, head dropping again, as once again, Lucas’s mouth dropped open.

A soundless mock-gasp.

“...You talkin’ to a native _ Louisiana _ boy about music, my friend?” His smile Cheshired back in again, and his head shook so hard and fast it was incongruously doglike. “Nahhhhhhh, this is the land a’ good music, my friend, and I know good music!” For a split second, his face reversed into a pout, and Clancy cringed as he reached back his way to jab a fingertip onto the CD cover. “Why you think I got this thing here, man? You fellas made some good _ stuff! _”

“If that’s what this is about,” said Andre, “....hhhhhh, then what the _ fuck _do you want.”

He had started to rock slightly. Keeping his head down, now.

“Well, _ uhhhhhhhhhh _ , I guess it’s like _ you _said, Petey!” Lucas lifted that fingertip again. Jabbed it over at Pete. Falling to lean back once more.

Somehow both looking straight at Clancy and over goddamn all of them at once.

Not blinking as he held his smile bitten with crooked and stained teeth showing down to the gums. Wrapping both hands around the back of his head.

“Y’all got to check out the scary ol’ Baker house? Well, I want a little revival concert ‘fore all y’all move on…!” Once again, his eyes fell half-moon lidded. He sneezed a little chuckling sound. “...In exchange for makin’ sure my mom and dad don’t hassle ya…!”

Andre straightened up promptly.

He shot a look straight across at Pete again.

And now Pete looked at Clancy again. And then at Andre once more. Then down at himself, struggled side-to-side in his chair, back at Lucas -- “That was fucking college!” he said.

With a notable _ whine _. 

“I-I haven’t picked up a guitar in literal god-damn years! I’m a TV man now!”

“You got a drumset?” said Andre, with a hitch and stumble.

“Guys…?” Clancy wavered out.

“A-and we don’t know what the _ fuck _ Kevin’s doing now - we been through _ four different fucking cameramen _ since we went web show and the guy got married -- “ Pete hurled his chair to lean Clancy’s way again. “Clancy here ain’t a guitarist!”

He rocked his chair again.

And for a moment, the gravity of the room shifted.

Clancy and Pete locked eyes, and space between ‘em and in Clancy’s very gut shifted like the tide under a moon (god-damn Pete not again…!) - as Pete careened closer…

...and the chair fucking smashed into the ground again - landed like an explosion and at the flash, Clancy hopped his chair back like a startled bird.

And through bitten teeth, he said, out loud, “_ god-dammit _, Pete…!” as Pete began to kick on the floor.

Repeating “_ fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -- ! _” while Andre made a noise like static exploding through a speaker.

Right before Lucas got up - a shadow risin’ across an invisible wall. Clancy looked straight up big-eyed - tracking him every step o’ the way, properly this time.

As the skinny man grabbed the back of Pete’s chair. Once again, propped it back up. Gave it a little wiggle for… stability, ostensibly - Pete flinched and then looked a dagger at Lucas in the upper corners of his eyes.

Then Lucas licked his lips, bent down, and, with the _ chuck-chuck _ of two… levers? Clips?

...Undid Pete’s restraints.

Clancy’s mouth dropped open. And based on his quick side-take, so had Andre’s.

Lucas swing a look out across all of them. Brow raised. Smile toothy again, affectedly in a manner than Clancy, once again, just _ could not place. _

A little cold prickle on the backs of his shoulders.

“Yeah, don’t you _ worry_, gentlemen!” Guy’s voice was swollen - pushing itself up high off of something dense in the bottom of his throat. “I got it all figured out, just you _ see! _”

He made another loop around the table. Pete stood frozen.

_ Chuck-chuck. _ Off came Andre’s restraints. He got up. Also stood frozen.

And Clancy trembled with something half-anticipatory and half-dead caution as Lucas proceeded to him. Bent down to loom over him. Reached down to his wrist. _ Chuck… _ and -- ...reaching across to the other one; Clancy leaned back and crumpled his nose at a fuckin’... _ veritable bouquet of swamp-and-dirt-and-sweat aromas _ \-- _ ...chuck. _

Lucas withdrew just like he’d stood: like a shadow. Quick and cool and hardly any sound.

Clancy, Pete, and Andre exchanged another round of looks like spooked and halfway-damp deer.

...And then there was a _ tug _. 

Clancy looked down. Jumped a bit - held up his hands and watched a cord swing under and between them like a weak jumprope. Looked over and Andre - was doing the same. Traced another line following that cord to Pete, head also down, shaking it with a gusty mutter of _ “geez” _.

Another tug.

Lucas was heading for the living room with the other end of the cord in-hand like a dog’s lead. He gave it a little waggle.

“Welp?” he said. His voice tart. Unctuous. He flashed his teeth for a sec. “Them hard-rock jams ain’t gonna pump out themselves!” An inward wave that whipped the lead lightly. “Come on!”

And the chain-free chain-gang shuffled along compliantly. Lined up behind the sofa, faced forward as Lucas, still holdin’ tight to that lead, loped up around it to the TV. He half-mimed leaning against it on his elbow, one knee bent out at his side with a heel to an ankle. Putting on that _ smug-face _ again and giving a slow-motion flourish - _ ta-daaaaaaa… _ \- out to three black objects lined up in front of it. One big, dead center. Two slimmer.

Clancy gulped. Felt a tug from Andre taking a step forward - snapped to look right at him.

“Those are _ Rock Band _ controllers,” he said.

“Aww, no, no, no, _ nooooooooo _ ,” Lucas _ mock-cooooooooed _, swoopin’ in lower. Adjusting a couple of knobs on the TV. It popped white - Clancy was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one who jumped, fuck, the sting in his eyes - and then to snow. “These ain’t just any ol’ game controllers…!”

“Yeah, no _ shit _,” said Pete. Sharp. “...They’re for specific types of game.”

“Ain’t what I meant.” Lucas tossed a smirk out sideways to them again. Turned one more knob.

The white of the screen pulled back in on itself - retracted into black. A couple of shifts of color.

And then… black again.

Lucas snatched up one of the guitars - pressed a button and hit the bar. A note played - ‘bout as loud as the screen had flashed bright. Clancy winced again. A colored circle held on the screen as long as the note lasted, labeled with a note.

Clancy, Peter, and Andre shuffled a bit. Another round of exchange of glances as the note and icon faded.

Pete muttered, “...So what, we got five note -- “

Lucas pressed two buttons together - red and green. Hit the bar. They both displayed and played.

Pete’s brow tensed. Another look at Clancy, and Clancy said “Chords”.

“What else?”

Lucas pressed the buttons again. Hit -- ...oh.

Clancy blinked, eyes on the guitar.

A second bar.

Another note played. Just one.

The icon was yellow.

Clancy nodded shakily. “...Oh-kay?” he said, voice small. Gulped. “So, uh - hit that button, and -- and you get a sixth note based on the -- ...the visible light spectrum, or so - “

Lucas pressed three buttons. Red, green, and actually-yellow.

The note that played was teal.

“Ahhh-_ hwwwwww _ , _ you’ll _ figure it out!” Lucas crowed, throwing a look back at the guys over his shoulder as he placed the controller back down, rested it back against the TV. “Anyway, ya got all the notes you boys’re gonna need to play a dope _ song! _”

“_Dope song_,” Clancy caught Pete whispering, shaking his head. All but voicelessly. Just short of hollow mouthing.

Lucas slipped his hands into his pockets walked into the corner of the room like a stork, face trained on them. He, too, tossed his head. “And y’all can play _ what-ever-youuuuu want…! _ You wanna play an old standby? Improv somethin’ _ new? _ Aaaaall up to you!”

He leaned back like a fuckin’ cartoon character with that stride. One of his hands flung back up into the air, and he pulled a lamp cord.

A spotlight popped on over what Clancy had assumed was some-piece-of-furniture-I-don’t-care.

It was, in fact, a mannequin.

Wearing a lampshade on its head.

With a mic stand in front of it.

“What the _ fuck _,” Clancy breathed to Andre, in a quick coasting glance over.

Lucas pointed in the air - grinned a fuckin’ almost-normal-ass grin. “But, nowwwww, if them sensors hear something they don’t like! Or -- ..._ heh _, iiiiiif ya get stage fright like ol’ Freddy, here…”

The guy squinted at the mannequin. Held that grin.

Pete tilted his head ‘fore they all, blinking, turned their eyes to the TV again.

In place of a note on the screen was a simple black-outlined circle. It started to blink; a faulty-speaker tinny sound began to pitch up in the stereo system before a CLONK kinda noise marked a skull and crossbones poppin’ up at the circle’s center.

Canned booing.

Clancy looked back Lucas’s way, raising an eyebrow.

Lucas had stood up straight. He was smirking again - holding a hand out to the level of the hands of the mannequin.

And in a moment of “oh”, Clancy’s eyes popped wide open.

Cords around the wrists.

They cinched tight. Plastic cracked, severed, and clattered to the floor. Andre winced - Pete recoiled back, wheezing another “Geez…!”

Lucas coughed one low, stupid laugh. Put his hands behind his back and rocked on his shoes once, twice. “...Thank god y’all aren’t gonna need to worry ‘bout the singin’ part, anyway!” Got back into motion - crossing the room again. In front of the instruments. In front of the TV. Face still owl-transfixed. He let his head fall cocked. “You’re, uhh, an instrumental band!” Nodded. “See? I’m a fan!" 

“We _ were _,” Andre said, in a trembling monotone through his teeth.

Lucas carried on, “But, uuuuuh, I guess if you prove y’all’re really that outta the game, kheh…” A sneezy nose-rumpling snicker. “...you fellas ain’t gonna need yer hands that bad anyway…”

He reached another light switch. Flicked it. The room went dark.

‘Cept for a halo of blue backlighting behind the TV.

Clancy swallowed hard. Heart rate pickin’ up. Jumped forward at another tug of the cord.

Did another check on each of the guys. Andre was rubbing his face. Pete was inspecting his wrists again. Frantically.

“You know what to do, boys! Your stuff’s right there!” Lucas called. “Come on and make it one hell of a show!”

It was as fuckin’ nearly normal-happy as that last smile of his again.

Clancy hung his head as he took his place filin’ in the line - a little squeak behind another gulp and a sweepy breath and tonal jerk behind an “okay…?”

They rounded the couch. Andre sat at the drums. He and Pete each picked up the guitars.

“AAAAAA-_ ONE! _” Lucas shouted.

“Hey,” said Andre.

Clancy jumped - straight up hopped an inch into the air, shuffled in place to get his footing and guitar-stance back. Looked down at him probably bug-eyed to all hell.

Andre wasn’t looking back. Just… panning side to side over the toy drum kit in front of him, a stick in each hand. “...Sorry we didn’t -- I don’t know… sorry we didn’t tell you about this,” he said.

Soundin’ like air through a dry, dark room.

“...Or got you into this, I guess. However you wanna put it.”

“...Ummm, that’s okay -- ?” Sounded about as tight and trembly as Clancy thought it would. “...Uhh -- “ Another… pass of his weight side-to-side, lookin’ at the floor. To kind of… test that stance a little better. “I-I was…” Experimentally pressed one of the buttons - immediately flinched as his heartbeat hit like a stab, fuck, how did he know that wouldn’t fuck something up… “...I-I-I was… actually... “

“Yeah?”

“Actually…” Clancy looked… halfway back up at Andre. Mostly a corner-look.

“AAAAAAAND A-_ TWO! _”

“...a-actually in a band, for, like… two years,” Clancy said. “I - I know a little bit about music.” Blinked. “_ A-a-and _ I’m pretty good at _ Rock Band _.”

Pete blew air somewhere right on the fine line between a laugh and a scoff. “No one is shocked,” he said. Shut his eyes a second. A second expulsion of air - all through his nose, this time. A depressurization. A deflation. He shook his head weakly. Pattered out light and fast. “...Fuck, man, I’m just an -- internet celeb, guys, what did I do deserve this -- this fucking Saw bullshit…!”

“So much for anchor,” Andre said, tone winding-down.

“We’re lookin’ at you to save us, man,” said Pete. Clancy had to look up to confirm. He was looking at him.

He wasn’t… sure whether to laugh or take that seriously. Something in his chest just felt… stuck.

His eyes just kinda… drifted back center. Down, as his fingernail “plucked” at one of the two strum bars. Grazing it without pulling it.

“...Uhhh - hey,” he said, this time.

“AAAAAAND A-ONE…!”

“Yup -- ?” Andre blinked hard. Tight. The word was clipped.

“...Is it, uhhh, true what he said…?” Clancy threw a vague gesture ahead in the air. “...All that me -- metal band stuff…?”

“TWO…!”

“In _ college _, man,” Andre mumbled. Thicker than ever.

His head lowered. He raised the sticks.

_ “THREE -- _

** _GO!_ ** _ ” _

**Author's Note:**

> My buddy flynnardkuwata @ Tumblr gave me this idea a while ago! Ha, I thought it was appropriate to get down and out there today due to it being 10/19, or, in my head, unofficial Lucas Baker Day.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed sufficiently, whoever you are! 8,)a


End file.
